Of Handbags and Heroines
by Got Tea
Summary: "But you're in the papers, Grace," Eve smirks. "Front page, no less."


**This one is for Lou; thank you so much for continuing to read and review. It makes me so happy that you still enjoy this fandom, and that you always take the time to leave a few words. :) xx**

 **Thanks to Joodiff for the speedy beta. :) xx**

* * *

 **Of Handbags and Heroines**

 **…**

The weekend – a long one, because there was a Bank Holiday in there – is over, and if she thought that the extra day would be enough time for people to forget, clearly she was very, very wrong, thinks Grace, sighing internally as she sees the way Sergeant Hill grins enthusiastically at her and offers a cheerful wave as she walks through the front door of the police station early on Tuesday morning. Still, she nods back politely, squares her shoulders, and heads down the hallway that leads into the depths of the building where the staircase down into the Cold Case Unit's underground HQ is located.

Normally a sparsely populated corridor heading away from the main centre of activity, today there appears to be something like mild congestion in the form of suspicious loitering. Still more faces of officers she rarely sees venturing this far down from the upper storeys more than once or twice a month peer out of open, glass-fronted doors at her, all of them also grinning cheerfully in amusement as she passes by, and in some cases even congratulating her. Ignoring them is not an option, so Grace pastes a polite smile on her face and nods to them all as she walks past, working hard not to let her stride lengthen and the speed of her walk increase, and thus give them even more to gossip about.

One or two of them even have newspapers in their hands, and those that do, or are standing beside them, have the biggest grins of all adorning their lips, as eyes of varying shades and colours dance with laughter. Painfully aware of the damage to her hand, and the starkly visible white bandaging swathed over the medical grade tape securing her broken middle finger to its neighbouring index finger, it takes a lot of willpower not to try to hide the injury inside her raincoat sleeve or pocket as all the sudden and unwanted attention makes her almost squirm inside with discomfort.

Thank all the higher powers, she thinks, that Boyd left considerably earlier than she did this morning. The thought of the additional gossip generated if the two of them had arrived for work together simply doesn't bear thinking about. Even so, it seems to be a much longer trip than normal down to the confines of the CCUs basement lair.

"Grace," grins Spencer, turning to face her as the double doors open. "Our very own hero!"

"Heroine," corrects Kat, pedantically.

Exasperated, she scowls at them. "Oh, not you lot as well!"

Eve, who has apparently decided to abandon her customary early morning habit of lurking in the lab until summoned for the traditional start of day meeting, cackles. "But you're in the papers, Grace," she smirks. "Front page, no less."

"And I'd really rather not be," Grace retorts. " _Honestly!_ It was two minutes – if that. Can't a woman just carry on with her life?"

"Nope," laughs Kat. "The phones keep ringing – the press want to speak to you, run articles about you."

So much for a quiet start to the week.

It's too much, it really is. Her hand hurts, she spent Friday night in A&E accompanied by an experienced and efficient response officer who, despite being kind and compassionate, was most definitely not the police officer she'd have picked to sit with her for hours on end had she had a choice in the matter, and then most of her Saturday at the station giving a statement and trying to help create an e-fit. And on top of all that there was the indignity of having her clothes and bag seized, and having skin swabs and a DNA sample taken.

Aware she sounds far too much like that particular officer she would have liked to have been in the overcrowded and obnoxiously loud A&E department with, she mutters a rebellious, "Well they can just carry on wanting for all I care, I have work to do."

Irritable, and far more bruised and battered than she's ever likely to admit to anyone but Boyd, she makes her way to her office and settles behind her desk, determined to simply crack on and make headway with her significant to-do list. Alone.

…

The peace of her closed door lasts only half an hour or so before the glass panel in it rattles as it is opened and then closed again. Her favourite mug is placed on her desk in front of her.

"It's that relaxing lemon crap you like," announces Boyd. "I thought you could probably use it."

Guilt flares immediately, and she looks down into the steaming liquid as he helps himself to a seat in her armchair. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be so touchy."

Dark eyes are considering her with no trace of levity whatsoever, only uncertainty as he steeples his fingers together in front of his face, tapping his lips.

"I'm fine," she pre-empts, knowing exactly where this is going. All weekend – after she came home from the hospital and then the police station – he's been watching her like a hawk. Staying out of sight while other officers were crowded around her nearly drove him mad, she's sure, but he managed it. He's been excessively gentle with her, too, and that's… annoying. Sweet, but annoying.

"Are you? Are you really?" There is scepticism in his eyes, and she can't blame him. Hasn't confessed that she woke up sweating in the middle of the night last night from a creepy and disturbing almost-nightmare. He'd surely have attempted to ban her from her desk if she had, leading to a spectacular argument she really doesn't want to become embroiled in.

"I'm not looking forward to letting CSI photograph the bruises," she confesses, well aware that every tick of the second hand inches the clock further forwards to the lunchtime appointment she has, where she will have to reveal the still appearing damage so that it can be recorded and catalogued.

"Do you need some more painkillers?"

"Not yet – in another hour or so. It's not too bad, honestly."

Boyd is still watching her, his expression softening. "Do you want me to drive you there?" he offers. "I'll buy you lunch afterwards, if you like – your choice."

It's part of his charm, and the gentler side of his nature. And the fact that he cares so much, that he's trying his hardest to make it all easier for her, means everything.

"Thank you," she replies, her eyes telling him just how grateful she really is. "I'd like that."

…

Heaving a sigh of relief, Grace walks out of the station doors and heads across the unfamiliar car park to where Boyd's Audi is waiting for her, her chauffeur seated inside flicking through a folder of papers.

"All done," she announces brightly as she climbs in and shuts the door.

The papers land on the back seat, his attention shifting entirely to her. His words are careful, his tone as well. "How was it?"

Grace bites her lower lip without thinking about it, then mentally kicks herself for giving him a clue. "It was a woman," she tells him, trying to sound positive, "and she was very good about it. She let me keep my top on and just lift it up and pull it aside. And when she took the bandage off to photograph my fingers, my knuckle started bleeding again around the stitches. I suppose that adds to the drama of it."

A large, warm hand lands on her arm, tenderly rubs the delicate skin around her wrist. "I don't care about the drama. I care about you."

She sighs. "It's a stupid thing to get wound up about," she admits, staring down at her knees. "It's just… It's not even what happened, not really. We were supposed to have a really nice long weekend together, and instead it's been a constant stream of police interruption. I feel like instead of relaxing, all I've been trying to do is hide."

"And this?"

She knows what he means. "This… this just feels like the biggest intrusion of all."

Part of what she loves so very much about him is just how well he knows her. Boyd doesn't push her any further, he simply squeezes her arm gently, affectionately, and then he drives to a quiet pub that they've frequented for years because it's far enough off the main thoroughfare that they can sit quietly and talk whilst enjoying a nice meal at a sensible price.

They don't talk about Friday night, or their ruined weekend; they don't even talk about work. Instead they discuss books and travel, places they've been, and countries they still want to visit. She desperately wants to go to Iceland, he's not so sure. They bicker and squabble lightly, because it's fun, and because it's what they do.

An hour passes quickly but cosily, full of laughter and enjoyment, good food and good company. And Grace forgets it all; for those few precious minutes it is just him and her as they normally are. Happy together. So much so, in fact, that as they get up to leave she almost forgets herself, almost reaches out to take his hand, wanting to stand up on tiptoe and kiss his cheek in thanks.

It all shatters the moment they approach the main gate to the old, ugly building whose questionably habitable basement was deemed suitable by someone, somewhere high up in an overpriced and oversized airy office building, for a bunch of dedicated misfits working on old, cold crimes. A small but seemingly enthusiastic collection of journalists are gathered around the electronic pedestrian gate beside the main access route for vehicles, emergency and personal alike. Boyd stifles a curse and turns the car into a side street, taking the long route around to the concealed and much less used rear entrance. Grace just turns her face away from the window and sighs.

…

"What's that?" she asks, walking into Boyd's office as six o'clock approaches. She's determined to try and get him out of the building soon; wants to spend the evening with him relaxing after all the chaos and irritation of the interruption-filled day.

Boyd glances up, pulls off his glasses and scratches at his neat, short beard. "Another of the evening rags. Curiosity got the better of me, I suppose."

"Oh for God's sake," she complains, her good hand landing on her hip. "Not you, too?"

He looks just a little bit too much like a naughty schoolboy caught in his tracks as he sits behind his desk, expression thoroughly guilty. "This is actually quite a good article," he tries. "Not like the usual bollocks they always seem to churn out. It does paint you as a bit of a heroine, though, admittedly."

Anger flares out of nowhere, hot and uncontrollable. "Grandmother Foils Would-Be Robbers," she sneers, glaring at the front page of the newspaper in his hand.

"What's wrong with that?" asks Boyd, clearly not seeing what it is that has her in such a fury. "It's true."

He doesn't deserve the glower she gives him, but after the steady stream of 'visitors' appearing in the basement throughout the course of the day to talk to, congratulate or simply gawk at her, she's simply too wound up to restrain herself anymore. A couple of the probationers working on the first floor were even so bold as to ask for her autograph sometime around mid-afternoon, no doubt sent down by their tutors and other senior officers as part of their 'training'.

"Grandmother," she repeats, her tone glacial. "Not 'Woman' or 'Psychologist' or even 'Doctor'. No, they chose ' _Grandmother'_."

"Why is that – "

"They seized on the one thing most likely to grab people's attention," she rages. "I'm not _that_ old! And I am most certainly not defined by being a grandmother. That's only part of who I am."

"I know that, but – "

"And how did they even find out that I'm a grandmother?"

Boyd opens the paper to the story's continuation pages and holds it up for her to see.

"Great," she snaps, seeing a larger, grainer version of the photo from the rear cover of one of her most recent books, the 'about the author' paragraph inside of which contains a throwaway line about her enjoying spending her free time with her daughter and grandson.

"Well," laughs Boyd, his eyes dancing with mirth as he looks at her. "Look it this way – you've always insisted that bloody oversized monstrosity of yours that you insist on carrying around with you would come in handy one day, and it turns out you were right."

Getting fed up with the whole thing, she runs a frustrated hand through her hair. "That's not helping, Boyd."

"Sorry. Honestly, Grace, I am. I mean it."

She's not entirely convinced. "Hmm."

"Look, just think about what Adam will think though – he'll have bragging rights over the whole school about how cool his Granny is."

About to unleash a long and aggravated response regarding what her grandson should be talking about in school, Grace is stopped in her tracks when a loud shout is issued from beyond the office door.

"Grace," yells Eve, an excessive amount of excitement in her voice only partly muffled by the walls between them. "Come here, quick!"

Sparing Boyd a withering glare, Grace makes her way out into the squad room to see what all the fuss is about, her tall, mildly sniggering partner trailing along in her wake.

"What is it, Eve?" she sighs. "If it's anything else to do with…"

She doesn't get any further. "You're on the national news, Grace," squeals Kat, who evidently is also far too enthused by the sudden chain of events precipitated by a simple desire to walk part of the way home in the warm summer evening air. "I mean, it's taken them three days to get it, and that's absolutely rubbish of them, but you're on the _national news_!"

"For fuck's sake," Grace growls, well aware that her turn of phrase is very much a Peter Boyd-ism, and so is its sulky delivery. It seems today she really is taking a leaf out of his book. Spencer snorts, the similarity obviously not lost on him, and turns the sound up on the television, where the newsreader is wrapping up a story on farming.

" _And now we have a tale of handbags and heroines. On Friday night, Doctor Grace Foley, a grandmother from Finchley, was walking home from work when she was attacked by two robbers, one of whom was carrying a knife. Now, you might expect a woman in her sixties to give up her handbag in such circumstances, or somehow try and get away, but not Doctor Foley, it seems. In this incredible CCTV footage you can see the gutsy grandmother – "_

"The what?" yelps Grace, aghast, as Spencer, Eve, Kat and Boyd descend into uproarious laughter.

" – _walking along the King's Road in Knightsbridge when two partially masked men run towards her. Doctor Foley is pushed back into the wall and a struggle ensues before she manages to pull away. Then you can see one of the robbers pull out a knife and rush at her again, but Doctor Foley swings her handbag straight at him. Now, of course we have no idea what was in the bag, but that looks like a significant hit, because the robber goes down and_ _incredibly,_ _he_ stays down."

Raucous cheering fills the air around her, and Grace, who has never embarrassed easily, feels her cheeks heat up. Shifting uncomfortably on her feet and folding her arms defiantly across her chest, she glances at each of her colleagues in turn, all of whom are completely caught up in the drama unfolding on the screen in front of them.

" _We can then see that the second attacker moves in and gets treated to the same as his accomplice, but he isn't as easily dissuaded. As he comes back in again, ripping the bracelet from Doctor Foley's arm and punching her in the chest twice before attempting to seize the handbag, he gets a fierce punch to the face before deciding to give up on the handbag and then making a run for it."_

Gazing ruefully down at her aching, taped and bandaged right hand, Grace shakes her head as her colleagues hoot and holler loudly and unprofessionally as they cheer her on in the video clip. A gut reaction, that's all it was, coupled with a swell of anger at the filthy words shouted at her by the two young men.

" _Now, Doctor Foley is no stranger to violent criminals. She's a Home Office forensic psychologist currently working with the Metropolitan Police's Cold Case Unit, and it seems that she's perhaps been learning a few tricks from the police officers she spends her days with. We understand that she sustained an injury to her hand during the attack, but it's not thought to be serious. The male she knocked out with her handbag was arrested at the scene and police apprehended the second offender yesterday following a series of inquiries; we're informed that he has an impressive black eye. Both men have now been charged with robbery and the first man has also been charged with possession of an offensive weapon. They have both been remanded in custody to court. We haven't been able to get hold of Doctor Foley to ask her about the incident, but I think it's safe to say, though, that next time someone tries to pick on her, they'll probably think twice about it."_

The teasing starts the moment the broadcast ends, and she forces herself to endure it with only a few good-natured barbs and retorts sent back at her younger colleagues in return. It's funny to them, she knows, but at the moment she just doesn't want to deal with it all. Only Boyd seems to understand, refrains from joining in for the most part.

Maybe she's being ungracious, she muses, as it all finally begins to die down and people start to leave for the day. They've all been nothing but supportive of her, but… so much attention is disconcerting, and as much as she's trying to dismiss it all, in the heat of the moment she genuinely was afraid. Thought that things were going to go very, very wrong. And that feeling is going to take a little while to move on from.

None of them know, of course, just how shaken she was, and still is. They all think it was incredible, that her actions were amazing. And she supposes that from the outside looking in that's honestly what it looks like. But they weren't there. They didn't hear the taunting, vicious language used by the two thugs who quite clearly thought she was an old, weak granny. Easy prey.

Is that what stings the most, she asks herself, forcing her thoughts towards that particularly unpleasant aspect of the whole thing. That her age, her appearance, might have been responsible for the entire incident? That those two men had written her off as someone useless and defenceless? That society's reaction has pretty much been the same?

 _Oh stop it,_ she mentally scolds. _This is pointless, stupid. Stop obsessing, Grace._

It's hard though. Hard to stop thinking about it. Hard to let go of the nagging, lingering doubt. All the insecurities that have suddenly, abruptly resurfaced and are now swimming around inside her brain, pestering her, preoccupying her.

She'll have to deal with it at some point, she knows. It isn't going to just go away and leave her alone, and she knows very well that it's never healthy to supress things, to put off working through them. For now though, she looks for Boyd, wonders how much longer it will be before she can coax him out of the building for the evening.

…

Night is drawing in, time has wound its way slowly by, and as soft music plays quietly on the radio, forming an easy sort of background hum, Grace yawns and contemplates whether or not it is yet quite late enough to head upstairs to bed. It's been a largely pleasant evening, one she doesn't particularly care to put a premature end to.

"You know when all of this has died down and is over with it'll be funny, right?" he asks, and it's the wariness in him as he studies her from his favourite armchair across the room that really punches through the last remnants of her lingering, gloomy irritation.

Genuine warmth and laughter breaking out of her, Grace nods. "Yeah," she concedes, "I know. It'll be one of those silly stories people pull out now and then when someone new joins the team, or on an evening out, drinking and reminiscing, won't it?"

Boyd snorts. "Silly stories? I think not. No, my dear, this is going to be the stuff of legend, you mark my words."

"Oh, for crying out loud," she grumbles, though this time it is only half-hearted.

"No, no," smirks Boyd. "You'll just have to live with it, I'm afraid. It's not every day that two violent young pricks get their comeuppance from a woman more than three times their age."

Grace sips her wine, puts the glass aside and sinks further down into the blissful comfort of the sofa cushions. "They deserved it," she murmurs quietly. "DS Sorenson called me while you were in the shower. They've linked both of them to four other robberies in the last week, including one on a mother carrying her six-month-old son to the shop to buy some milk. They broke her leg in two places, kicking her to the ground so they could steal her purse."

It's an incredibly sobering thought. She knows the answer, even as she asks the question. "I'll have to go to Crown Court to give evidence as a victim, won't I?"

Boyd nods, eyes serious. "You will."

"All the countless hours I've spent in court over the years," she sighs, "and never once has it been as anything other than an expert witness."

Cloth rustles and a glass clunks as it is placed on a coaster. Boyd perches on the sofa beside her, studies her as she lies there, looking up at him.

Incredibly handsome man, she thinks. And he adores her, she knows. It's really rather wonderful.

Cool, lazy fingertips trace her cheek, run one by one over her lips. "You know I'm incredibly proud of you, don't you?"

Her instinct, as always when confronted by something that makes her feel awkward, is to throw out words. "Peter, I – "

"No. I am, and even though that makes you uncomfortable you'll just have to live with it. Very few people in your circumstances would have come out of that as well as you did, and I'm incredibly grateful that you're still in one piece. The thought of what might have happened to you… well, it just doesn't bear thinking about."

She lifts an eyebrow as his words come to a halt. Enquires a faintly tart, "Finished now?"

Boyd growls at her. "God, Grace. Why do I even bother, hm? You're so…"

"So…" she invites, tone as arch as she can make it.

He subsides carefully down onto the sofa beside her, body stretched out beside hers, mindful of her bruises. "I just can't win with you, can I?"

Grace smirks, offers him a suggestive, "Oh, I wouldn't quite say _that_ …"

Boyd laughs, long and loud and with considerable delight as he rests on his elbows and grins wickedly at her as she plays idly with the hem of his tee shirt and joins in with him.

"I'm fine, and that's that," she says at last as their mirth finally subsides. "It's no use dwelling on what might've happened."

"I know," he nods, and she knows he's thinking of the same thing she is, that they have both learned the hard way over the last few months that life is precious, to be lived fully.

She can see the clouds work their way into his eyes. Wants to banish them before they can set in and become a lasting, damaging storm. "Don't think about it," she urges, running her fingers through his beard.

He blinks, solemn. Brushes his lips against her hand delicately. "Yes, Grace."

It's not enough. She needs to refocus him completely. "Are you going to kiss me?" she demands, impishly.

He gives her a long, thoughtful look, deliberately considering her at length. "I don't know," he says at last. "Would you like me to?"

It's too easy to feign infuriation at his timewasting. "No," she declares. "I would not."

"Well, Grace," he tells her, his face moving closer to hers, "that's just too bad, because – "

" – you're going to anyway," she finishes, her eyes sliding closed as his lips finally find hers.


End file.
